


Damsel in Distress

by meisie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Consensual Kink, F/M, Future Fic, Kidnapping, Kind of Gothic, King and Queen, Light Bondage, Mildly Dubious Consent, Roleplay, Romance, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, a birthday present, chase me and catch me, mildly dark stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-07 09:24:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18617785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meisie/pseuds/meisie
Summary: There is very little that is weak and defenseless about the Mother of Dragons, but sometimes it’s fun to pretend. In which Daenerys blows off some steam from the pressures of ruling, and her husband grudgingly indulges her, until the wolf comes out to play. Roleplay smut, trigger warning for dubious consent.





	Damsel in Distress

_ _

 

_ A/N: So I did a poll on Dumblr asking my dear readers what kind of fic they wanted. Apologies for those who wanted a good ole salt fic, but I hate Winterfell as a setting (if you followed Up Against the Wall, you will know this, and not to be smug but I was right wasn’t I, Winterhell sucks). I prefer to do a time jump to a kinky kidnap summer romp in the fields and woods of the Crownlands, because that’s what fanfic is for. Enjoy, and tell me whether you had a good time. I certainly did. Thank you to Justwanderingneverlost for the moodboard xxx _

  
  


When he asked Daenerys what she wanted for her name day, he knew not to expect the typical feminine request for some jewels or silks, or a piece of fine furniture, or even something practical like a new saddle for her silver mare. He knew his wife, knew what she would devise would be a challenge, and nothing to do with spending gold dragons on some frippery, but he hadn’t expected this. It was a mighty pain in the arse to arrange, and he was uneasy at what her request did to him, resentment and black excitement warring beneath his stoic surface. 

The Gods only knew where her fancy came from, she wasn’t one for reading cheap romance books, but perhaps she had been listening to the Westerosi serving women and their lurid tales of bad men and distressed damsels from the old stories. She had told him much of her past now they had the rest of their lives to talk, and he wondered if there was something deeper to it, a way of re-living those days when she was young and vulnerable and powerless, confronting what still haunted her and laying it to rest with him. That trust was her gift to him, so even though it wasn’t in him to play games, he would do his best. 

He liked to think of himself as a good man, a loving respectful husband and father, a just ruler, but there is a beast in every man, and he knew his well. The shadow of a wolf, dogging his steps though war and woe were in the mercifully distant past. She knew that wolf, had petted and stroked him and brought him out. In her deceptively delicate hands, the wolf was her pet. The beast that used to hack and slash and punch and throttle, forced to fight for life from the day he rode north from his old family seat to face the world. 

_ We all enjoy what we are good at _ , she had said once, and he swore he did not, but that dark shadow, that dark heart, could manifest itself in other ways, ways that could bring his complicated lover the best kind of release, and, when he was being honest with himself, brought him the same. So he lied and withheld, consorted with dubious characters in the bowels of the city to arrange it, told their Hands the queen was hunting in the Kingswood with her bloodriders and was perfectly safe, when he knew she had ridden off in disguise, scaring the seven devils out of him at the thought of her alone for a handful of hours, even when he knew her dragons were never far from the tether of her thoughts.

She had a head start on him when he rode out, blandly telling everyone he was going to take the ferry across the bay to join the hunt and declining an escort, pulling a thin black cloak over himself so he could traverse the stinking, noisy city to the southern gate incognito, his trot speeding to a gallop as he hit the open heathland beyond the city walls. The sun was as always far too hot for his blood, and he squinted in the blazing light, the morning dew on the grass evaporating fast to leave a rich scent of earth and crushed flowers that reminded him of her. 

She had always been the promise of  life beneath his hands, hot, pulsing life, warming him through to his frozen marrow. Even under the summer sun he could recall that gift she had given him, along with her trust. 

The Royal Guard had done a good job of ridding the hinterland of thieves and rapers, but still worry gnawed at him like a rat as he rode, afraid that some assailant she would not welcome had accosted her. The heathland gave way to sparse woodland, dappled light from the spreading leaves of the softer southern trees giving him some relief. He had always been good at tracking, and soon he picked up a trail, hoofprints in soft mud, a broken branch, a strand of silver hair snagged in the bark of an elm. He roughly knew where to find her, but as time wore on his irritation grew. He paused to listen to the sigh of the wind, tracking any stray sounds, then smacked his horse’s rump at the snap of twigs, breaking into a gallop. 

A gasp of shock, a curse, a swirl of silk skirts in blue and silver, her loose hair streaming like a banner. She rode like a real foe was on her heels, like a Khaleesi, astride as always, not like some frightened damsel fleeing with an uncertain seat. He jinked right, ducking to avoid smacking branches, and drew ahead with a vile oath, sawing on the reins to bring his stallion to a halt to block her path. Her mare reared, and she gave a very realistic screech, blue-gold eyes wide with fright. He didn’t hesitate, drawing his sword in a hiss and holding it to her breast, swelling above her bodice. She normally never wore such flimsy attire while riding or ruling, but he appreciated the effort she had made. 

‘Dismount, my lady,’ he grunted. ‘Or I will cut that silly gown to ribbons and you can ride across the rump of my horse naked.’ He cringed at the menacing words that he dug out of his mind, but the way her eyes danced told him she liked them fine. 

To make good his threat, the tip of his blade sliced an inch of fabric, the steel grazing her skin. Her face flickered through several emotions on her normally controlled face, emotions only he was privileged to see, amusement and ire and desire, then unease that matched the heave of her small, perfect breasts. With an insolent huff she slid off her mount slowly, and he rushed to follow, but  not fast enough. She was going to make this hard on him, picking up her skirts to reveal practical boots and leggings, and running for it, as fleet as a deer. But he was a wolf, and he would bring her down. 

***

He had been slapped, clawed, kneed in the stones and his lip bitten hard enough to draw blood when he tried to kiss her against a tree, and it was enough to know that his wild wife was taking this little escapade very seriously, so he should do the same. So he tied her up, arms pinned to her sides, her mouth gagged with a kerchief to muffle her curses. He held her in the cradle of his thighs and rode hurriedly through the woods, hoping no foresters or hunters were around to see him. He had her plain disguising cloak and hood wrapped around her like a parcel, but it was thin enough that he could fondle her as he rode, silent and grim but highly aroused by the fight she put up, and the softness and scent of her, the promise of all he could do to her once he got her inside the cottage his contacts had arranged. 

It was small, of whitewashed stone, with a door painted red and a smoking chimney, neat and prosperous, not a tumbledown shack where he would be forced to take her on dirty straw. He dismounted and tethered the beasts, then returned to bundle her off his mount and drag her inside, kicking and struggling weakly in his grasp, curses in Valyrian and Dothraki muffled by the gag. There was a table, a cushioned settle, and a bed laid with fine linen, and it was so warm inside he felt sweat running down his brow as he manhandled her over to the back of the settle, head down over the side, the cords he had bound her with falling away easily under his blade. 

Holding her down with one hand, he unbuckled his sword belt before stripping off the cloak and bunching her skirts, and when she went to slide away he held the knife to her throat. He didn’t think he would enjoy this much, but he was hard as iron, brute urges swarming in his brain, the distressed noises she was making, the swirl of her hair, her breasts hanging over her bodice under his groping hand. If she wanted to be ravaged, then he would oblige, and then kiss her poor, bruised cunt better later, make her sweet juices well so he could fuck her again and again. 

He moved the threat of the knife from the pale stalk of her neck, using it to slit her breeches along the seam, tearing them in two. She was bare beneath, her creamy buttocks, the pink petals beneath. His fingers probed, and he growled at the slickness he found. ‘The lady likes to be caught,’ he taunted her. ‘You are mine for the night, and I will show you how it’s going to be.’ Frantic struggles, growing feeble, the sound of sobs released when he pushed the gag from her mouth. He wanted to hear her scream, and she did, she was so tight she was virginal, so tight it was like the first time he had taken her arse, the fit of her painful as he plunged deep and relentless, right to her womb.

He knew then he wasn’t going to last, he would rut and use her like a cheap whore and spill all too fast, it was too exciting, her resistance, her tears, the grip of her cunt a trap that he couldn’t escape. He held her spread cheeks hard enough to bruise and cut with his nails and hammered her into submission, not thinking of her pleasure, only his own, became the mindless animal he swore he would never be, watching himself disappear into her core, her swollen lips engulfing him, her nectar smoothing each stroke though she cried out with pain and distress, bit the hand that clapped across her wet face to smother her. 

When he came, it was with a roar, withdrawing in a rush and erupting over her, thick seed beading on her bottom, marking her as his, her bare cunt red and raw and empty of him, her sobs ragged and her small body trembling. Guilt rose up to choke him at the disheveled state of her, the limp, broken look of a trampled flower, but he knew her heart of steel, her complex mind under her moon-pale  hair, ticking away like a clever machine. She had asked for it, and he would play his role to the very end, until she woke i with a soft smile of thanks on her wide mouth, relaxed in his arms with all her troubles and memories forgotten.

***

He used water heated over the fire to wipe her snot and tear stained face and the mess of his seed on her skin once he had her stripped and secured. She had it in her to make another run for it and make him chase her bare arsed through heath and wood, and the savage he had become liked the sight of her bound by her wrists to the headboard, naked and defiant, comfortably placed amidst pillows and tended with care but still his captive. 

Her face was suitably angry but her eyes followed him about the room, clad only in his unlaced breeches, drinking him in as greedily as she drunk the cup of wine he held to her lips. He ignored her for a long while, silent and ominous, wolfing the bread and cheese on the table, taking a seat by the fire to sharpen both blades with an oilstone, taking his time and leaving her alone to think about what he might do next. 

Outside it was growing dark, the wind was rising and tossing the branches of the enveloping forest in a rustle and whisper. Back home the children would be being tucked into bed in the nursery, and their Hands and advisors would be whispering in corners, wondering what had become of their queen and king. Though he ached to see the babes before they slept and read them their favourite stories, he was amused at the likely consternation caused by their absence. If only they could run away for good, and leave the buggers to work it all out for themselves. The time was still not ripe yet, but they both longed for the day.

She was dozing when he shed his leather breeches and mounted the bed, leaving his thoughts over what was waiting at home behind, spreading her thighs and kissing twin trails up the soft flesh. She stayed limp and unresponsive, but that wouldn’t last, not with his tongue in her, soothing where he had torn into her delicate flesh. A small purse of pink furled petals, opening like a flower with a beckoning red centre, so sweet he moaned in his throat, his tongue probing her depths then swirling around her nub to expose it. 

He had given her no time to come before, so it wouldn’t take much, and sure enough she arched like a cat, the flood of juices increasing as he boldly slid his thumb into her puckered arse, giving her cunt a rest. She mewled loudly, giving herself away, and he gloated through his mouthful of her. ‘Mmm, I knew I could make you want me.’ She cursed him lowly, straining against the rope at her wrists, and at her denial he furiously set to work, wanting her loose and open so he could take her front and back, with just enough discomfort to drive her to the very peak of her pleasure. 

He hooked her thighs and bent them backwards, bit and mauled her glistening cunt, opened her arse with two digits that slid to the root, rewarded with wanton moans and shuddery cries for mercy, then that beautiful sensation of flutters on his tongue, the tight clamp of her arse around his hand, the hot taste in his throat. ‘You’re a very good whore, my lady,’ he crooned at her, looking up her belly and breasts to her flushed face and glassy eyes. ‘A perfect bedslave, just what I wanted. I shall never let you leave.’ 

Her glowing eyes and rosy cheeks betrayed her, but her voice was sharp with temper. ‘Let me go,’ she said, her first words other than curses. ‘You have had me, broken me, hurt me, have pity my lord, and let me go.'

‘I don’t believe you are broken, not yet,’ he replied, nuzzling her belly. ‘And once is not enough. You are good and wet now, you can take me, all of me, as many times as I please.’ At her girlish gasp, he hid a smirk, kissing her pretty cunt, the ache of need in his stones worse than the damage caused by her well placed knee. ‘But as you wish, I can fuck your arse instead, but I expect you will like that even less.’ 

Pitiful, helpless cries and struggles beneath his crashing weight, a single tear trickling down her heated cheek which he licked away, his cock heavy and needy at her exquisite playacting, rubbing between both tempting holes, undecided on whether to make good his threat. Her slick, fiery heat won out, sucking him down to pummel and plunder, her leg bent back and his head angled so he could watch her yield, still wonderfully tight, as if she was clenching her inner walls to fight every inch, her bent, bound body utterly tense. 

An unwilling bedslave, but so juicy wet and pulsing around his cock he knew she wouldn’t be able to fight to the end and pretend she hated it, that he was forcing her, not even when he split her cheeks and took her from the rear where it would overwhelm her more. Even then, she would come for him, crack her mask of fear and disdain and show him what lay beneath, his lover, wife and queen, who wanted to know all of him, good heart and black heart, beast and man, the two halves of himself. The queen who remembered what it was like to be a terrified girl, and confronted it.

***

The very last gasp of dark lust, her legs so weak they couldn’t hold her up on all fours, her wrists rubbed raw from the rope, his cock so drained he was amazed it had taken upon itself to demand more. He propped her up in multiple pillows and mounted her again from behind, her sobs of discomfort all too real, her core so fiercely hot from multiple assaults he knew she would not welcome him into her bed for many days afterwards. He went easy on her and from his own fatigue, showing her mercy while showing her who ruled, yanking at her hair to make her arch, solidly filling her cunt but very slowly, and when she came into his rubbing fingers she gushed wetness, screamed so shrilly she sounded like she was about to lose her mind.

He emptied into her, his last drop, the darkness oozing from his sweaty pores and floating away into the smoky air. Though he could barely move, he extracted the knife from under a pillow and cut her bonds away clumsily, turning her about to cradle her in his arms carefully. She was barely conscious, lips bitten raw, lids fluttering, hair a tangled mess, but when he kissed her she purred like one of her beasts in a pool of sunlight, a sliver of blue-gold eye regarding him warmly. ‘Who knew you were such a bad man, Jon Snow,’ she murmured sleepily, tucking her cheek against the scar over his heart. 

‘You did,’ he said with a fond snort. ‘Why I had to go to so much trouble when you could goad me into being bad at home, the Gods only know, but I hope you enjoyed your present.’

‘I did, very much,’ she said sleepily. ‘Though I think I shall have to walk home, I won’t be able to sit a horse for days.’ A dark wing of a brow arched at him, and he kissed that too, their entwined bodies wrapped in a blanket of contentment he could feel as a tingle over his battered flesh. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to keep me here as a bedslave for a good long while, until they come looking for us.’ 

‘As you wish, my lady,’ he rumbled, wishing it was possible. He was a man of his word, and he had sworn it to her, that this cottage for the night would be their future, obscure and half-forgotten and left alone to grow old and die together with their children and beasts around them. 

He had been given a second chance at life because of duty, to save the world and fight for the living, but only she had made him want to live, to struggle through drifts of blood soaked snow and piles of rotten bones in the dark, though lies and truth, plots and bitterness and enmity and fear, to the sun breaking on the far side. 

Sunlight on her silvery hair, tinting her fine skin gold, the swell of life under the thin skirts of summer, his escape though they were both still earthbound and trapped, their only freedom their bodies and minds, and snatched, desperate moments like this. 

But not forever. 

 

THE END


End file.
